Denial
by Rooty
Summary: Quinlan Vos is convinced that he has not joined the Dark Side. This certainty is sorely tested when he is sent to assassinate a Jedi General.
1. Assertion

Here I go again. Back into the shadows. Deeper this time – deeper than ever before.

This is the first time Dooku has given me an assassination job. I've stolen from the Republic, I've sabotaged the Republic, I've probably been responsible for hundreds of deaths in the Republic – but not since I...not since Dooku killed Tinté have I been involved in murder. My hands are red with blood, yet I have spilt none. Because I'm not here to kill people. No matter what Dooku thinks, no matter what the Jedi think, I've not joined the Dark Side. If you put a candle in a dark room, does it make the candle any less brighter? Maybe, but it still glows. I will die before I betray the Jedi to the Dark Side.

Still, I relish the prospect of lethal combat. Eight months ago, when I fought Agen Kolar on Nar Shaddaa, how I wished I could kill him. Once or twice I snapped, and went all out on him. If Agen had been a lesser swordsman – and I must thank the stars that he wasn't – he would have died. I had been instructed not to injure him, but at that moment my instructions seemed like nothing, swept away by the pure intoxication of the moment. The flash and hum of blades, the stink of the air, the thrill of the fight...all this made me just want to break out from my body, to kill Agen, to kill Tookarti, to kill every single person on Nar Shaddaa...

That must be what the Dark Side feels like. That feeling of wanting to exceed your limitations, the feeling of both satisfaction and deep longing, the feeling of wanting _power_, and not caring how you get to it. But isn't _power_ what the Jedi stand for – power over oneself? This is a tricky line I walk upon – one that seems to be ever shifting.

But I know that it cannot be Dark Side. I'm not looking forward to combat. The electric buzz within me is not anticipation, but nervousness. This job needs to be done. Dooku has to be able to trust me, so that when the time comes I'm in the best possible position to betray him. I need to rise above Skorr, rise above even Ventress, and become Dooku's favoured hand. It is the only way.

Khaleen stands in the doorway. It's time to go. She'll drop me off in the _Skorp-ion_, and then get to the rendezvous point and wait for me. If I'm not back in thirty-six hours, she's to leave and report back. She won't – she cares for me too much. No worries. I'm not going to die. Dooku has taught me well – shared some of his secrets. With them, I'll be undefeatable in combat. And I know better than to draw on them too heavily – whatever I masquerade as, I'll always be a Jedi. And I'll _never_ join the Dark Side.

Never.


	2. Approach

The _Skorp-ion_ was an odd craft, three stabiliser wings reaching out from a crimson central unit that resembled a beetle's carapace. It skimmed through the stars in an upright configuration, shooting towards the rocky lump that was Arthel XI. A wasteland system, Arthel had recently been exposed as the site of a major Confederate weapons testing ground. Even as the Confederacy prepared to retreat with their new weapons, the Republic immediately dispatched a task force led by the Trandoshan Jedi Mthitth, one of the more respected Generals in the war. Within three days, the Confederacy evac cruisers had been pinned down on Arthel XI, a relentless Republic assault preventing them from taking off.

It was Quinlan Vos' job to stem the tide of the Republic attack – at the source.

"Hey Quin, be careful down there, won't you?" asked the pilot, Khaleen. Peering up from his seat in the cargo hold, Quinlan could see Khaleen's reflection in the viewport of the _Skorp-ion_, her face showing both concern and a steely defiance, as if she dared Quin to get himself killed on this mission.

"No worry," grunted Quinlan, using a small file to chip away at the carbon scoring on his blaster, "I'm not stupid. I know what I'm doing."

"I sure hope so," sighed Khaleen, bringing the ship down with a slight bump. The ramp extended, and Quinlan stalked out. He felt Khaleen's hand on his arm, and turned to face her. "Be safe," she whispered, and kissed him on the lips. Quin broke the kiss as quickly as he could, his sullen face staring out at her from behind a tangle of dreadlocks. "Be at the rendezvous, Khaleen. I'll be waiting for you."

Khaleen grinned. "Sure, but I don't know what I'm going to do for thirty-six hours. Maybe there's a town on this place, one where I can pick up some easy marks."

Quin grinned too, but his smile was devoid of humour, and the expression looked peculiar, almost as if it was someone else's mouth plastered onto his face. "I need you at the rendezvous point, Khaleen, not locked up in some shanty-town prison. Be there." His face reclaimed his usual, brooding glare, and a moment later he was gone, lost to the mission ahead.

Tarkath was a run-down little town, exactly the sort of place that Khaleen would have described as an easy mark. A few houses had doors and windows, but most were nothing more than primitive mud-huts and brickwork structures, held up with cement and spit. The road was dusty and pocked with skid-marks and potholes, and scurrier vermin hurried about the town, rushing from pipe to pipe of the exposed sewage system. The sooner this mission was over, the better.

Quinlan's first port of call was the local tapcafe, although he wisely chose not to order a drink. Stepping over spilt drinks, smashed mugs and unconscious patrons, Quin made his way to a stout Caridan who sat in the corner, smoking a hookah and making idle chat with a Twi'lek woman. He looked up at Quin, did a double take, and shooed the girl away.

"I'm sure Dooku would be interested to know what you're spending his money on," grunted Quin as he sat down in the vacated Twi'lek's seat. "The gizka march at nightfall."

Staring into his drink, the Caridan muttered, "And the nuna will follow at dawn." Quin nodded, and the informant continued. "The battle has been raging on and off for the past three nights," he began, without needless preamble, "and it's pretty much chaos out there. No-one knows when the shooting's about to begin. Awful crossfire casualties, must be a hundred scavengers fallen already."

"Where's General Mthitth holed up?" Hopefully it'd turn out that the Trandoshan was hiding in the next room, and Quin could be quickly in and out, and back to something easier, something that did less damage to the Republic, something that – although he would never admit it – was easier to justify.

The Caridan cackled. "Holed up? Ha! I thought Dooku's intelligence on this matter was good!"

Quinlan offered the man a dark glare, and that shut him up. "You _are_ Dooku's intelligence on this matter. Now where is he?"

The Caridan gulped, and then continued. "He's been with the troops ever since the battle started. Out there on the front, leading them into the battle. They say the Jedi can perform incredible feats of endurance, but I've never seen anything like this...three days fighting with minimal rest..."

In truth, most Jedi would have been drained after only a few hours of continuous battle. However the Trandoshan species was known for it's natural regenerative ability, and Mthitth had honed this trait, enhancing it with his Force knowledge, until he could endure fatigue and hunger for days upon end. When fighting Mthitth, one couldn't simply hope to wear him down.

"Where is he now?" asked Quinlan. "And how can I get there?"

"Last reports pegged him as fighting on the Pebble Coast. It's only a forty minute walk south of here, with enough boulders and cliffs to provide cover for anyone wishing to approach...unseen."

"Good enough," muttered Quinlan, dropping a twenty cred piece into the informant's palm. "We never had this meeting."

But he purged the man's short-term memory, just to be sure.

It was late evening by the time Quinlan neared the Pebble Coast, and if the rapidly thickening darkness wasn't enough to conceal him, the many boulders and rocks that littered the war-scarred terrain would do the job. Hunched behind a large stone outcropping, Quinlan did his best to catch glimpses of the battle. Every now and again a stray laser shot would skim over his head, and once a particularly violent explosion showered him with a spray of charred battle droid components. Still, he couldn't make out an awful lot through the darkness, and he would have to get closer to fully appraise the situation.

Working his way toward the battle site, Quinlan kept an eye out for danger. When setting up his spy network, Quin had become used to dark places, such as the bowels of the Wheel, and therefore his keen eyes were able to quickly adjust to the night surroundings. After about twenty minutes of stealthy approach, Quinlan drew close enough to pick out some details. He'd assumed that the Pebble Coast was a sea, but he could soon tell that he was wrong. The uniform rocky landscape met what could only be described as an _ocean_ of small stones and pebbles, which seemed to stretch out to the horizon. Whilst the heavily artillery – Confederacy tank droids and Republic walkers – kept themselves to the barren land, most of the troopers were up to their waists in the pebble sea, dropping like flies, the restrictive bed of pebbles making it near impossible to dodge incoming blasts. Only one combatant seemed to be moving with any pace – and that was Mthitth, using his violet lightsaber to gouge a way through the ocean.

This could be easier than he'd thought. With Mthitth bogged down in the ocean, it would be easy for Quin to drop from the sky and take him out. But then he'd still have to get back out, under fire from both sides, and he'd also reveal his hand in the matter.

Perhaps he should try and hit from range, then, either from a concealed position, or better yet make it look like stray blaster fire from the battle. But how? Mthitth would sense a blaster shot and deflect it. No, heavier weapons would be needed. Something that Mthitth, pinned down in the stones, wouldn't be able to dodge.

Something like the main cannon of one of those attack tanks.

It was as he darted towards the battlesite that Quinlan ran into the deserters.


	3. Assistance

I hit the ground, hard. Looking up I see a pair of second-rate mercs, wearing poor-fitting armour and wielding blasters that wouldn't be fit to blast a womp rat with. They both point their weapons at me, quaking nervously – even without the Force I could easily disarm both of them before they managed to peel off a shot. Instead I get up, staring darkly at both of them.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" one of the screams, his blaster wavering with anxiety. Idiots. Why would anyone be outside in the middle of the night on a war-infested world such as this? I'm not deigning that question with a reply.

"Answer him!" cries the other one, pointing his gun at my head. I can see that if he fires, the shot will go at least a meter wide. Reaching out I snatch both blasters before the two can react. "Hey, give them back!"

"You're going to shoot yourself in the face if you carry on like this. Where did you learn to shoot, a bantha farm?"

The two gape like fish, as if searching for an answer, and then shut up. "Now," I say, levelling the blasters at them, "just why are you out here, _running away_ from the battle?"

"It's us asking the questions here, mister!" cries the shorter merc, and obviously the stupider one. Through the darkness I see that he has curly blonde hair, and a clean shaven face – he looks like he should be back in school, not on the battlefield. But he's made his decision, and his youth won't gain him any mercy if he decides to attack me.

The larger of the mercs, who is a spitting image of his companion, except for his jet black hair and fresh scar across his cheek, elbows the little one. "Smart," I tell them. "Now, what are you doing here?"

"We were fighting with the Seppies, but we decided to hang back when the battle moved toward the ocean. Take pot-shots from range."

Pot-shots? This pair? They'd do more damage to their own side! Who needs saboteurs when you're fighting against people like this!

"We didn't expect the clones to start firing back," he continues. "And when a nearby tank exploded, and I got this wound, we had to pull out and find a medcenter."

I inspect the "wound", nothing more than the scar on the boy's cheek. It looks nasty, yes, but the cut isn't deep, and even the least of soldiers would have shrugged it off. I'm dealing with a pair of cowards.

Still, this has possibilities. Maybe...maybe I can get them to help. Maybe they can strike the killing blow. It's not that I shirk from duty, not that I fear to kill one of my own kind, but what signs would this send to the Council if I was seen killing a Jedi? Only a handful of the Order know the truth of my defection – Tholme, Yoda, Windu, and maybe the rest of the Council. I've not reported in since the Kiffu operation – the security's too tight, I can't afford to be compromised, I've gone without reporting in before, the Council will know I'm alright – and this might be the icing on the cake. The last thing I want is both sides after me in both reality and masquerade.

I am an enemy of the Republic and an ally of the Confederacy. Yet I am also an ally of the Republic and enemy of the Confederacy. I could strike as a Jedi, and help the Republic win the day. We would celebrate tonight, but now many more nights would offer bloodshed due to my actions? I could strike as a minion of Dooku, help the Confederacy win the day, and put myself in an excellent position to stop any further bloodshed – but only by betraying everything that I stand for.

Or I could use these buffoons to do the job for me, and leave here having spilt no Jedi blood. The Council would be reassured that I've not deserted the Republic – because I haven't – and I'd still be in good stead with Dooku. Yes, this plan has possibilities. This pair are fools, but my plan is foolproof. I explain it to them, and give them vibroknife to wield. After their performance with the blasters, I only hope they can fight better at close range.

The trot back towards the battlefield, and soon the darkness claims them. As they disappear into the night, I grip the stolen blasters tightly, and make my way around the perimiter of the battlefield.

Lurking in the shadows, I prepare to strike.


End file.
